


The Mission Files

by CastleScribe



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex goes off the rails at one point, BAMF Alex, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, One Shot Collection, Violence, but I haven't read the one after SCORPIA Rising so I guess it's a little AU, but he's not infallible and he knows that too, but it's been a while so I forget what's canon-typical, but realistically BAMF, he's good and he knows it, it's not too bad anyway, loosely linked one shots, mostly set after the books, people get shot I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-02-09 04:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12879756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CastleScribe/pseuds/CastleScribe
Summary: Alex Rider leads a very eventful life. It's the universal constant, really. The following is a collection of short glimpses into that life.





	1. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex is being watched, and then suddenly there's a car chase.

Alex was being watched.

Well, he didn’t actually know that for sure, but the hair on the back of his neck was prickling and his instincts were telling him that something was about to go very wrong very quickly. Ignoring them seemed ill-advised – after all, instinct was the reason he’d lived long enough to reach his sixteenth birthday.

If he were honest with himself he’d admit to wondering half-seriously if that was actually something he should be proud of. To be fair, he’d be a great deal happier with making it to sixteen if he were celebrating by doing something – _anything –_ other than busting a human trafficking ring. Hell, he’d even take sitting through a painful double-period of maths over galivanting about in piercings and fake prison tattoos and pretending to be so rid of basic humanity that he’d kidnap and sell children. That he was a whisker away from being extracted and leaving the whole mess behind wasn’t much comfort: he’d still aided in ruining the lives of innocent people as part of his cover.

A flicker of movement in the shadows had Alex alert once more. _Mind on the job, Rider._ If he wanted to be sixteen for more than an hour, he needed to focus on keeping himself alive, not on the morality of doing bad things to stop other people from doing worse things. He slowed under the pretence of peering into the window of a bakery, using the reflections to search his surroundings without alerting whatever had moved.

Nothing.

Alex nearly groaned in frustration. Maybe it was just his imagination’s contribution to the ‘make Alex’s birthday terrible’ party? It was a reasonable conclusion. It was one in the morning and the streetlights were flickering or smashed entirely, leaving him straining to see by the silver of the waning moon. To mistake litter tumbling down an alley for a threat would be understandable.

But no – there it was again. Another glimmer of movement. Once might have been chance, but twice? Even considering the number of lapses he’d had tonight, it was unlikely that his imagination was responsible for both instances. His hand strayed to his hip for the gun he’d carried constantly for the past month, only to curse under his breath when he realised he’d somehow forgotten it. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Regardless of how he felt about the assignment, being without a weapon while on assignment was a rookie mistake he should have been long past. Badgering Mrs Jones until she caved and finally allowed him to pack heat was all well and good until he left the damn thing in his room.

Alex turned back to the street, dropped his hand, and picked up his pace. He was fully alert now, scanning the gloom for danger even as he tried to remain optimistic. _It might just be a couple of guys looking for trouble._ He’d cut all contact with MI6; had overwritten the security footage. Hell, he’d even taken the precaution of waiting a few extra days before making his final move to ensure no one would suspect him. He’d been careful _._ There was no logical reason to think his phantom watchers were members of the trafficking ring.

But optimism had never been Alex’s strong point and his instincts were telling him that he hadn’t been careful enough. It might be time to call it in. Everything had been wrapped up but for a few insignificant details, so leaving a day sooner wouldn’t harm the operation.

Decision made, Alex sidestepped the remnants of a streetlight and took a sudden right, aiming for the extraction point rather than the cheap motel he’d originally been heading for. Seconds later, he heard the scrape of glass behind him, as if someone had barely avoided stepping on the lightbulb shards.

Alex spun and eyed the darkness behind him.

The darkness eyed him right back with metal glinting at its hip.

_Shit._

Alex took off in a dead sprint, the suddenness of his movement startling his stalker into hesitating for a precious second. In that moment, he managed to put another two meters between them but that still only gave him seven meters at the most. The margin for error was tiny. Any hesitation or mistake on his part and he’d be caught.

Movement out of the corner of his eye had Alex risking a glance over his shoulder and swearing. Another figure was rapidly ascending a fire escape, sniper rifle in hand. Clearly, they had planned to ambush him in the other street. If he hadn’t changed his destination and interfered with the sniper’s line of sight, he’d already be riddled with bullets. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his guess was confirmed by a glimpse of two more pursuers keeping pace in the next street over. They must have guessed what he’d been doing, but then why not take him out earlier, before he had a chance to pass on intell? And how had they known? Even under scrutiny, the final drop he’d made that night would have looked like nothing more than a drug deal – hardly incriminating given the company he’d been keeping-

The window beside him shattered at the same moment the spitting _crack_ of a sniper rifle reached his ears. Alex threw up an arm, shielding his face from the glass, but didn’t slow. He was too busy furiously recalculating his odds. There must only be the one sniper: there was no reason for them to think they’d need more, and the length of time between the figure climbing from the fire escape and the shot was long enough for them to have reached the new vantage point. And considering the forethought of having a sniper, there had to be a manned perimeter-

Another shot had Alex ducking, but also sent his lone pursuer jerking back in reflex. Alex judged losing his human shield to be worth gaining some breathing room and took the opportunity to extend the gap.

-there had to be manned perimeter somewhere nearby, but it wasn’t likely to be too well-manned. Maybe half a dozen men at the most, spread out near the site of the planned ambush in case the sniper had missed. Now that he’d changed course, they would have been notified to form a cordon in his new direction.

The odds weren’t good. Trying to outrun three tails, one sniper, and half a dozen unknowns would be suicidal, though the issue would be the perimeter rather than staying ahead. Alex was confident in his ability to outpace the team of three – the extraction point was only a few blocks away – but as long as someone had eyes on him, the cordon would cut him off long before he reached it. On top of that, one lucky shot from the sniper would solve all his future problems by killing him, which was fan-bloody-tastic! The only option which had a chance of him walking away alive was to lose the tails. On their own turf.

 _Christ_ this was a bad idea.

Alex made his move without warning, vaulting over a bench and hurtling across the street. His aim was a dark shadow on the opposite wall that he was fairly sure led to backstreet access lanes, though it was entirely possible that the shadow was just a shadow. This was possibly the riskiest thing he’d done so far, given the amount of open space and the sniper’s-

_Crack!_

-clear line of sight.

Alex flinched so hard he stumbled, half-expecting the bullet to have lodged itself in his chest. But the sniper’s aim had been off by meters and he wouldn’t be getting another chance because Alex had already reached his goal.

The lanes were a narrow maze of filthy rubbish bags and cardboard, with new walkways appearing out of the gloom every few meters. This was his chance. His sudden change in course, coupled with the distance between him and his pursuers, had granted him a full three seconds where they wouldn’t see which way he’d gone upon entering the alley. Alex took a left hidden by its proximity to the entry, then a right, then another left. When he rounded the corner, he threw himself behind a mound of rubbish bags and pulled them close, though he gagged on the sickly-sweet stench of rotting food. It had been easy to ignore when he was moving. In close proximity, though, the smell coated his tongue and made his stomach turn. Despite that, he burrowed further into the pile to hide the beacon of his blonde hair: given the choice between enduring the stench or being tortured and murdered, he’d happily pick the former.

 _What a way to spend a birthday,_ Alex thought sardonically. _On the bright side, at least my body is convinced that it would be in its best interests to never breathe again._

Voices neared, and though their conversation was blurred by the echoing corners, it was still distinct enough for Alex to pick out three sperate voices. They’d clearly regrouped before entering the lanes, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though it wasn’t ideal. Hopefully they’d sweep the area quickly. The longer they took, the more likely it was that they’d call for reinforcements, and then Alex would be really screwed.

All he could do was wait, which meant plenty of time to curse himself for his inattention. The tail should never have gotten that close. He’d practically been stepping on his heels! Only luck had saved Alex – if not for the glass, he would have been captured or shepherded to his death. And god only knew what he’d let slip to give himself away. He might hate MI6, but that didn’t stop him from acknowledging his skill as an operative: a track record with a 100% success rate was unheard of. He was proud of that, in spite of everything. And that pride made the bitter taste in his mouth from his performance even more sour. He’d been criminally stupid tonight. This whole mess could have been easily avoided if only he’d been a little less brainless and had remembered his gun. And maybe if he hadn’t been so ridiculously preoccupied with his birthday, he might have noticed the tail.

There wasn’t much he could do about it now, but they weren’t mistakes he’d be making again.

The conversation ceased moments before one of his tails rounded the corner at a jog. It was a woman with her hair pinned back in a long braid and a Beretta held loosely by her side. Alex mentally urged her to keep walking as she aimed her torch towards his hiding place. _I’m not here; keep walking; I’m not here._ His attempt at mind control was entirely unsuccessful. In fact, instead of glancing at the mound and moving on, the woman came to a stop on top of his hand and began to kick at the bags. Heart pounding, he forced himself to remain still despite the pain. Moving was the worst thing he could do right now: not only would it catch her attention immediately, but even if he managed to make it to his feet without detection, he’d still need to travel meters without cover. There was no way she wouldn’t notice that. As long as he could remain hidden for a few more seconds, she’d believe that the lack of response meant no one was there and would move on.

Hopefully.

Alex was beginning to reconsider his plan when the rapid dismantling of the pile threatened to reveal his feet. Just as he was readying himself to make a move, a bag split under the force of a particularly hard kick. The woman reared back, swearing a blue streak in a comically posh English accent, as filthy liquid sprayed from the tear. He waited, heart pounding, for a long second before she spat on the ground and turned her attention to the rest of the alley.

Alex leapt to his feet the moment she disappeared down an intersecting lane and legged it.

After that incident, the ease with which he navigated the rest of the access lanes was almost insulting. He managed to emerge well ahead of the team of three, without seeing even a flicker of torchlight. In fact, he made it within meters of the multi-storey car park which was his goal without further incident. His escape had – for once – gone perfectly to plan.

Of course, that was when he collided with a member of the manned perimeter.

Alex, who had been looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit, crashed into the guard, who had been on Twitter, with enough force to send them both tumbling to the ground. There was a sickening _crack_ when the man’s head connected with the concrete footpath. Somehow, he remained conscious – not that it was much help, as all he did was stare agape at Alex. Alex would have laughed if the situation had been less dire. Instead, he shamelessly took advantage of the situation to snatch the guard’s gun and leap to his feet before the man regained his senses.

He was already inside the car park when the man finally reacted with a shout of “He’s in the parking lot!” and rapid footsteps. Several calls responded, all of them far closer than Alex was comfortable with. He pushed his tiring legs harder as four men entered the garage to join the chase.

The bike was on level two, parked illegally close to the ramp but otherwise fairly inconspicuous. Alex yanked the keys from his pocket as he ran, and was twisting them in the ignition as he threw his leg over the seat. Nothing.

“Come on, come on…” Another twist. “Damn it, work!” His three pursuers were close enough that he could see the bloody gravel imbedded in the head and arms of the first guard in absolute detail. Alex gritted his teeth. He had mere seconds. Smithers had never failed him before – now would be the absolute worst time for him to start. It _would_ work. He twisted the key one more time.

The engine roared to life! Alex yelled in relief and kicked up the stand. A twist of the throttle sent him shooting under the arm of the concussed guard and down the ramp.

But his relief was short lived. He’d barely started moving when he heard the roar of engines approaching the building. The fourth guard must have alerted someone to cut him off at the entrance, probably someone from the original three. Alex clenched his teeth and accelerated hard. Why couldn’t he catch a break?! He’d got the bike; it should have been over. All he should be worrying about was a few stray bullets! Instead, he was courting death by doing forty miles an hour in a fully-occupied car park. He’d had some runs of bad luck in his time, but this had to take the cake!

Alex skidded out the entrance just ahead of two motorbikes, taking the sharp corner too wide in his haste and nearly crashing into the storefront opposite the garage. He came so close, in fact, that his shoulder grazed the glass, but he couldn’t afford to slow so he squeezed the throttle and shoved himself away from the wall with a kick.

This road was better lit than the first one he’d walked down, but it was fiendishly twisty and the speedometer was ticking upward at an alarming pace. 65 miles an hour down a London street _had_ to be some kind of record, he thought absently, leaning into the corners at an angle that made his head spin. MI6 would be getting one hell of a speeding ticket if he made it through this mess.

Hitting the main road at the end of the street brought its own set of problems. On the plus side, it was straight. On the other hand, there were ten times the number of obstacles and infinitely better line-of-sight to shoot him. The last thought had Alex glancing in his right mirror. He was greeted with the sight of the lead rider taking aim and swore colourfully – sandwiched between two sedans, he couldn’t swerve. All he could do was press himself closer to the seat, crouching so low over the handlebars he felt like he was about to merge with the bike. Seconds later, a burst of gunfire buried bullets head-height in the boot of the SUV in front of him.

Alex finally pulled ahead of the sandwich and reached for the stolen gun in his waistband, swerving one-handed to cut in front of one of the sedans. The driver slammed her hand angrily on the horn, then cried out in fright as her back windscreen shattered. Alex ignored her. Instead, he spared a cursory glance for hazards on the road ahead, then twisted and fired three shots at the tyres on the lead bike. The front wheel blew out with a bang, sending the motorbike spinning out of control and into another car. Alex glimpsed the gruesome tangle of twisted metal and limbs before he turned back to the road. He veered around a corner. The side of a lorry loomed out of the night.

Panicked, Alex drew his right leg up so it wouldn’t be pulverised and threw his weight to the side, slamming the bike over. The impact knocked the breath out of him, but he still managed to slide under the chassis with nothing more than a horrific screech of metal on gravel and the loss of only one side mirror. As he emerged, he remembered the horrific fate of the rider he’d dispatched and shuddered. Then he refocused. Unlike the other rider, he wasn’t dead yet, and he didn’t intend on allowing that to change.

Alex kicked at the bitumen, using every ounce of body weight to lever the motorbike upright again, then squeezed the throttle as hard as he could to regain his momentum. The remaining rider hadn’t been incumbered by an altercation with a lorry, so they were gaining ground fast. The late-night traffic approaching the Thames hadn’t thinned, so he couldn’t get a clear shot on his tail to dissuade them. Instead, he employed every evasive manoeuvre his uncle had ever taught him in an attempt to pull away from the other rider. It wasn’t working, but at least they weren’t gaining ground either.

Alex pulled an earpiece from his pocket and used the connected keypad on the body of the bike to dial the direct number for Mrs Jones’ office from memory. The cool voice of her new secretary greeted him.

_“Hello, you’ve reached the Royal and General Bank. My name is Matthew, how might I direct your-”_

Alex blew through two red lights in quick succession, and the sound of horns blaring cut off the rest of his sentence. “Look, it’s Rider, I need to speak to Mrs Jones urgently,” he yelled over the wind.

_“Agent Rider, I’m afraid Mrs Jones is in a meeting right now. I can-”_

Alex missed the old secretary.

“If you think you’re equipped to deal with a high-speed, very public car chase, be my guest,” Alex snapped. “If not, put me through.”

_“…putting you through now.”_

Thank god. Alex fired a round over his shoulder as he turned onto a new road with less traffic, hoping the bullet would magically connect with his tail. A glance in his remaining mirror left him sorely disappointed. Maybe Smithers could design him a gun which locked onto targets if he asked nicely.

The dial tone disappeared as the phone was answered. Alex didn’t waste a second. “Requesting immediate extraction from a high-speed car chase – I’ve been burned.”

The chatter of gunfire forced him to pause as he swerved, barely avoiding being hit.

The head of MI6 didn’t waste time. _“Report.”_ Alex noted a male voice in the background and the tell-tale echo of speakerphone, but ignored both knowing he wouldn’t have been put through if it hadn’t been safe to talk.

“I’ve got one tail on a motorbike with an automatic weapon, and there’s probably reinforcements on the way. We’re heading north up Ann Street – it’s probably on the news – and I’ve got one bullet left.” No need to mention that he’d forgotten his original handgun. “The assignment objectives aren’t in jeopardy; I made the last drop tonight.”

Another burst of gunfire. Alex cursed as a bullet grazed his arm. Staying on a straight stretch of road would be suicide. He needed something with more cover. Above him and to his left was an overpass which would be better, but how to get there…?

 _“Good work. Make your way to our car park and we’ll-”_ The rest of the sentence was lost in the squeal tyres as saw his opportunity and took a sharp left turn. He raced into another multi-storey car park and up the ramp to the second floor, which was level with the overpass. There was a speed bump at the end of the short straight stretch after the ramp. Alex braced himself and took it at full speed, letting it throw him over the concrete barrier. There was a split-second of weightless and terror, before the impact of the landing punched the breath from his lungs. The motorcycle crunched worryingly but didn’t falter _._

 _“What was that?!”_ exclaimed the background voice.

“Think I just totalled the suspension,” Alex answered absent-mindedly while checking to see if he still had his tail. He did, unfortunately. For Mrs Jones, he adding jokingly, “Sorry, am I interrupting? I can call back.”

 _“Yes, that would be very convenient,”_ Mrs Jones deadpanned. Alex laughed, steered around a car, then braked hard again to skid across two lanes of traffic and down the off ramp towards Liverpool Street.

“Just tell me when to try again, and I’ll leave you with…” he trailed off leadingly. Sometimes he worried he’d gotten too used to this – the middle of a car chase, and he was shamelessly fishing for information.

 _“The Prime Minister and the Minister for Defence.”_ Mrs Jones sounded amused. There were muffled protests from her companions. Both operatives ignored them.

“Ooh, top secret business, huh?”

_“Indeed. Did you need me to repeat my earlier instructions?”_

“Yeah, thanks. I’m nearing the bank now.”

_“The gate is up for you. Go straight through, take two rights, and stop. Mind you stop quickly, or you’ll become a pancake. We’ll deal with the rest.”_

“Got it. See you in debrief, Mrs Jones.”

_“Thanks, Alex.”_

 

It turned out that Smithers could not make a gun which locked onto targets – at least, not the right targets – but he did promise to give Alex a new motorcycle if he vowed not to ruin it as well. Alex dubiously told him he’d try his best, and opened his front door a week and a half later to a sleek, unbranded motorcycle. There was a bow on the handlebars and a card attached the seat. Inside, he found it signed by Smithers and Mrs Jones and, somehow, the little girl he’d been made to kidnap who was apparently safe and with her family again.

The crayon picture she’d drawn of a blonde stick figure saving a smaller stick figure in a pick dress definitely didn’t make him cry. Really, it didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to emulate Horowitz's style here, so this isn't quite how I normally write.


	2. Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was a deity in control of Alex's life, 'simple' wasn't a word it knew. How else could an easy meeting turn into such a mess?

Psychedelia was a nightclub which belonged to another era; it had been built at the height of disco in the 70s, not long before the AIDS epidemic had made people afraid to party. After the fall of disco music, it had been abandoned until a recent purchase by a young couple, but the building’s character had remained in its LED dance floor and glittering disco balls. It was small and dark, with only enough space for a cramped bar, a tiny stage, and – of course – the dance floor, but it had a reputation for good company and well-priced drinks which attracted clubbers in droves.

Alex Rider stood nursing a Screwdriver by the bar. He looked exactly like any other bored 18-year-old waiting for a friend, dressed casually in skinny jeans and a tight-fitted white T-shirt, and blonde hair styled into a messy quiff. In reality, he was there for an information exchange with a defector from the Triads.  
He took a sip from his drink and scanned the room, searching. The informant was late. Of course, it was possible that she’d arrived on time and had yet to fight her way through the crush of people and strobe lighting, but it was making Alex edgy. Nothing good had ever come of missing the meeting time. He cast an eye around the room again, but there was nothing unusual occurring – so long as you didn’t count the quiet drug deal in front of the bathrooms. That wasn’t really unusual or any of his business, though, so Alex ignored it. There was still no sign of his contact.

Alex was seriously considering walking away. There were other ways to obtain what he wanted, and the meeting was becoming riskier by the second. Everything that made the club perfect for an exchange – deafening music, terrible lighting, and the sheer number of people – also made it a prime opportunity for setting up an attack. The Triads didn’t take defectors well. They liked MI6 operatives even less, especially after the mess with Winston Yu and the snakehead. If his contact had been found out…

Alex raised his glass to his lips with the intent of draining it and leaving. As he did so, a young woman with dark hair and a midriff-baring dress approached the bar and ordered a Screwdriver. Alex stilled. She was almost a perfect match for the picture he’d been given, and the drink she’d ordered was one of the signals.

This was his contact. But why had she been late? The worry nudging at him hadn’t let up despite her appearance.

Alex would have dismissed the sliver of doubt if his instincts hadn’t saved him time and time again. With that in mind, he stood up and approached her, drink in hand and a friendly smile on his face.

“A word of advice, my friend: the orange juice is terribly sour. You’d be better off with a cocktail.”

She turned at the signal phrase, and Alex could see her assessing him in the same way he’d done for her only seconds ago. Her eyes darted to his drink before she smiled.

“I’ve avoided cocktails since an unfortunate incident involving honey, feathers and an important document.”

Alex let himself relax at the word-perfect response. He set down his drink and offered her a grin, but didn’t introduce himself. “Care for a dance?”

His contact agreed with a smile and led them into the packed dance floor, but didn’t offer her name either. She didn’t need to: Alex already knew everything about her, from her full name (Rachael Maria Hawke) to the street she’d grown up on (Springfield Grove, Bristol). MI6 wanted her as an asset, after all. He’d be willing to bet a substantial amount that he knew things about her that even she didn’t know.

They simply danced for a few minutes, allowing anyone watching to think they were an ordinary pair of strangers. Then, when the music transitioned to a remix of a song with a heavy beat and breathy vocals, Alex pulled Hawke to him, turning her so that her back was to his chest. She tilted her head back on his shoulder, giving him an excellent view of her cleavage and – more importantly – a way to speak without being overheard.

“The information?” he asked, trusting their proximity and the volume of the music to hide the conversation.

“Yes.”

She raised her hands over his head as they gyrated together, and Alex ran his hands over her hips and thighs. There was a strap on her left thigh – a knife holster, he was sure. Coming with a gun would have been stupid, but coming without a weapon at all would have been suicidal.

“Where is it, then?”

“King’s Cross; one of the lockers.”

Alex made sure his body didn’t give away his ratcheting tension. This meeting was only to establish the trustworthiness of a potential asset, not to facilitate a real exchange. MI6 already knew where the information was; had known for weeks, in fact. It was nowhere near King’s Cross.

Alex acted as if he wasn’t well aware of that fact, bringing his head down to her neck and mouthing along it so he could further lower his voice.

“And the combination?”

“18-4-31,” she answered immediately, though her heart was pounding under his hand. “Have you kept your end of the deal?”

They hadn’t, but neither had she. “Yes,” Alex lied. “There’s a car waiting for you outside; it’ll take you to the safehouse.”

Alex felt rather than saw his contact grin. “Lovely.”

She moved with the speed of a viper. One moment, she was pressed to him with her hands behind his neck. The next, she was dropping her hands to her left thigh and spinning, knife in hand.

But Alex was faster, and he had been expecting it.

He dropped to his knees as the knife slashed the air where his throat had been. The duck had been so fast that Hawke hadn’t actually seen him move in the strobing lights. To her, he appeared to have simply vanished between flashes. Disoriented, she hesitated.

That was a mistake.

Alex forewent formal martial arts, lunging forward and hooking his arms under her knees. Hawke’s focus immediately snapped to him and she moved to kick him in the groin, but it was too late. Alex was already leveraging his weight against her, tearing her legs from beneath her. She went down hard. Alex pressed his advantage, scything his hand towards her exposed mastoid in a perfect downward knifehand strike. It would have been over immediately had he connected with the knockout point, but Hawke had recovered faster than he’d expected, stabbing the knife towards his exposed stomach. Alex was forced to abandon the strike to avoid being impaled, instead throwing himself to the side and allowing the blow to glance off the crown of her head.

Alex flipped to his feet at the same time as his opponent. There was a moment of stillness as they circled each other, each recovering their breath and taking the opportunity to assess what was rapidly devolving into a train wreck of a night. For his part, Alex was essentially unarmed – he hadn’t been able to bring a gun through the tight security, and retrieving the concealed knives in his boots would offer Hawke an opening he couldn’t afford to give. He had a few items from Smithers, but most were too dangerous for such a small space, and the rest wouldn’t be effective on a human being unless he got creative. Up against a skilled opponent with a knife, that wasn’t particularly good news.

Thankfully, the other clubbers had moved away from them, leaving the pair alone in a misshapen oval. Given the lack of alarm, Alex assumed they were unable to properly see and thought the fight was simply dancing overenthusiastic dancing. Good: civilian targets were the last thing he needed right now.

“Are you even actually from the Triads?” Alex yelled over the music, stalling.

Hawke bared her teeth at him in an approximation of a grin, still obviously winded. “Originally. Then SCORPIA recruited me.”

“Of course.”

Alex struck out again, but Hawke dodged, returning his strike with a swipe of her dagger.

“I was one of them once; did you know that?” Alex told her idly as they separated. “I trained at Malogosto for months, just like you, before they turned on me. In a way, I should thank them. They’re the reason I’m alive today.”

Hawke jerked back in surprise. Alex let the opportunity pass, hoping the truth would convince her to turn. A sympathetic SCORPIA operative would be useful.

“You’re lying,” Hawke finally told him, though she sounded uncertain. “They would have mentioned it in the briefing.”

“Would they? They tried to kill a perfectly willing agent – I believed in the cause; I did everything they asked; and they still turned on me. They don’t want you to know that.”

“But… they still would have mentioned the training. If they knew you were trained in our techniques, they would have warned me so I had a better…”

They’d come to a complete halt in the middle of the dance floor. Alex could see realisation dawn in the widening of her eyes and the clenching of her jaw. He kept pushing the point.

“A better chance? I agree: if they wanted you to succeed, they would have told you. But they didn’t.” He took a step closer when she didn’t react. “It almost seems like they wanted you to fail, doesn’t it? They know that every assassin they’ve ever sent after me has come back in pieces – little ones, all chopped up exactly like Gordon Ross taught us. So tell me, Hawke, what did you do to make them want you dead? How did _you_ screw up?”

The expression on Rachael Hawke’s face changed, and Alex knew he’d pushed too far. That was the only warning he got before she lashed out with a textbook-perfect high kick to the throat. Alex leapt backwards to avoid it, but Hawke followed him to deliver an elbow jab to the stomach. Unable to dodge again thanks to the wall of bodies, Alex could only sway backwards with the blow to absorb some of its force. Anger had leant his opponent strength, though, and the impact was still powerful enough to make him grunt with pain. Thinking he was too off-balance to defend himself, Hawke attempted to follow it up with a series of lightning fast punches, but she’d miscalculated: Alex caught her wrists mid-movement. He stepped forward, crowding her to give himself more space, then used his hold to flip her over his hip in one fast, fluid movement. It was a flawless throw– until Hawke took a swipe at his legs as she fell and brought him down with her.

She pounced on him the moment he hit the floor, pinning him. The blade of her knife flashed gold in the lights as she brought it up, then red as she stabbed down towards his unprotected neck.

Alex nearly dislocated his wrist from the force with which he wrenched it out from under her leg. He ignored the pain to block the strike with his forearm, stopping the tip of the knife only centimetres from his Adam’s apple. They struggled over the knife until Hawke put her whole weight over it. It began to descend despite his best efforts, and Alex realised he would be dead within a minute if he didn’t do something. If only he had the use of both hands! But Hawke learnt from her mistake in allowing him to free his right hand. His struggles were fruitless.

The whole situation reminded Alex distinctly of Murmansk all those years ago, when Conrad had tried to strangle him. Pity there was no magnet here. But the element of surprise was always useful…

Alex scrabbled at his jeans pocket with his trapped hand. _Where is it?!_ He was beginning to panic. The blade had touched his neck, drawing blood, and he wouldn’t be able to hold it off much longer. But then his fingers finally found the smooth, rounded metal of Smithers’ new exploding coins. He pressed the button that activated the three second countdown, gritted his teeth, and violently threw his body to the side. _Three._ The movement jolted the knife into carving a deep line in his throat, but it also dislodged Hawke just enough to pull his arm from under her leg. _Two._ Alex threw the coin in her face. _One_.

The exploding coin hit Hawke in the teeth with enough force to sound painful.

_Now!_

Nothing happened.

Alex’s eyes widened in horror – he’d miscalculated; had thrown it too early. Instead of injuring the assassin, or at least shocking her into moving, the coin would explode on him instead. With the angle he’d thrown it at, it would rebound and land directly on his left eye, maiming him before Hawke finished the job.

Time slowed. The coin rebounded, beginning its fall. Then, four centimetres away from Hawke’s mouth, the coin exploded.

She jerked backwards, releasing the knife, and it was instinct alone that let Alex grab it before it could plunge into his neck. He didn’t waste time reversing their positions: instead, he flipped the knife in his hand and smashed the hilt into the sweet spot just behind her ear. The mastoid – it was the same place he’d been aiming for it earlier, but he’d missed then.

He didn’t miss now.

Hawke’s eyes rolled in her head and her body went limp over him. Alex checked her vitals and allowed himself a moment to relax in relief when he confirmed she was out cold. It was over. The whole experience was dangerous and annoying, but at least it had livened up his night. Hell, maybe now he’d even be able to convince Matthew, Mrs Jones’ secretary, to convince their employer to stop sending him to these meetings. His mere presence dictated that something would go wrong.

A concerned clubber seemed to take notice of the situation and leaned over to ask if everything was alright. Seeing that he and his unconscious companion had attracted something of a small crowd, Alex took that as his queue to roll out from under Hawke and rise stiffly to his feet.

“Everything’s fine,” he told the group over the thumping music. “She’s an angry drunk – we had a fight, she had too much to drink, then she passed out.”

They seemed to take that at face value and trickled away, leaving Alex to pat down the assassin for further hidden weapons in case she woke up. Then, with Hawke still at his feet, he pulled out his phone to text Matthew. Time was also vital when dealing with SCORPIA operatives, and he knew that the other man would organise him a ride quicker than any of his other MI6 contacts.

_‘pick up from club?’_

The reply was immediate, and sounded distinctly exasperated: _‘What did you do now?’_

_‘it wasn’t my fault! contact was scorpia. unconscious now, but idk for how long’_

Alex gathered up said unconscious companion and began to pick his way towards the door as he waited for the response.

_‘…I don’t know why we let you outside. No one else gets into as much trouble as you do. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think it was deliberate.’_

Alex contained his laugh. They’d come a long way from the animosity of two years ago, where Matthew had initially refused to put him through to Mrs Jones in the middle of a car chase. It might have taken a near-catastrophic international diplomatic incident, poison, and three grumpy waiters; but Alex now counted the other MI6 agent as one of his closest friends.

Seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

_‘Actually, knowing you, it probably is deliberate. You make my job a living hell, Rider.’_

This time, Alex actually did laugh. _‘i’ll buy you a drink if you organise a pickup’_

He was rewarded with another text only minutes later.

_‘There’ll be a car there in two minutes max, and I’ll expect to find a bottle of single malt Glenfiddich on my desk by Monday. Not a day under 15, mind.’_

_‘you could’ve gone 20 you know.’_

_‘Dammit. Can I change the terms?’_

_‘too late! car’s here’_

Maybe tomorrow he’d go out clubbing properly. Tom would probably be up for a night out, Alex mused as he handed Hawke off to the driver and stepped into the car. He might as well enjoy life while he could, given the mortality rates of his chosen job. MI6 operatives like him didn’t live long enough to retire, and tonight had reminded him why.

‘Live fast, die young’, right?


End file.
